**[New words in the last sentence after "spectrum of life.] This bus window I'm looking out of onto a bright blue sunny day has a line of water drops at the bottom, on the outide. Hmm. . .

I only use this bus to go up and down bits of 24th Street in the Mission and Noe Valley, but it's very name, the 48 Quintera, says that it goes, every time it dows its route, to the deepest, foggiest avenues. The part of 24 Street I ride up and down is sunny if any place in the city is sunny. The avenues are foggy if any place in the city is foggy.

So these water drops might be imported from the fog near the ocean of the avenues, and they are now turned into little bit of bright yellow by a crosswalk we're stopped above for a minute. They travel around the city, squising into water drop shapes bits of color from here and there.

I get off the bus and an eleven year old ahead of me gets off the bus and turns around and says "Bye, Lizzie! Bye, Lizzie! Bye, Lizzie" for a while with joy. She'll keep the beauty of Lizzie's exact place on the spectrum of life with her today as she goes on her rounds.